


Bus Ride

by edibleflowers



Series: Only God Knows Why [5]
Category: Popslash
Genre: F/M, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making up after the fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bus Ride

**Author's Note:**

> In terms of the timeline (continuity? what's that?), this takes place after "Rules".

A few days later, I sit down next to Chris at the small table. He's working on something; for once, he's serious and focused, a rare mood for him. Glancing over at the laptop before him, I see a random webpage, probably nothing serious. JC's asleep in his bunk, so I know we won't be disturbed.

"Hi," I say.

He glances at me, mouth twitching in a temporary smile. "'Sup?"

"Nothin'." I draw my legs up, propping shins against the edge of the table, the hem of my long skirt tucked under bare feet. "Um. I wanted to. Apologize."

His eyebrow quirks, but his gaze remains set on the laptop's screen. "For..?" he prompts, after a moment.

"For the fight. For being mad and yelling at you. I was being presumptuous. I'm sorry."

He's quiet for a bit. Then he rubs my knee with one hand. I take that to mean apology accepted and rest my head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry too," he says.

"What for?" I'm genuinely surprised.

"For pushing the whole Justin thing. I guess. I thought it was a good way to approach it."

I smile a little. "I don't know if there is a good way. It just doesn't feel fair to me, you know? Like I have to do it whether I want to or not."

"Ahh." He nods, looking at me sideways. "I see where you're coming from now."

"Thanks."

We cuddle in companionable silence for a little while. The bus rocks gently, a steady rhythm of motion carrying us to wherever the hell we're going next. It doesn't matter. Everyplace is the same. These encapsulated moments are the ones I treasure.

Chris's hand strays from my knee, fingers light and caressing over my thigh. Down my calf. Slow over my ankle, making me giggle. Stealthy up the hem of my skirt, reaching for warmth, and all the while he still stares at the computer as if he's unaware of what his evil hand is doing.

My folded legs have me locked in place between the back of the seat and the table, but I can angle my hips a little, and I do, to try and give him better access. He brushes into curly pubic hair, and he slants me a grin.

"Someone's been naughty."

"Not naughty, just... forgetful," I correct him.

The angle is too sharp for him to do more than lightly touch me -- though the swipe of fingers across my barely-wet lips makes me suck in my breath -- so he closes his computer and turns his full attention on me. He pushes me to my back, kneeling over me. I hear JC snort in the back, then his faint snoring resumes; the bus is quiet, aside from that, the dim thrum of the motor, and my own breathing, which is loud in my ears.

"You've been a very bad girl," Chris tells me.

"Do I need to be punished?" I ask, putting a finger to my mouth, hooking it over my lip.

"I think so." He pushes my skirt up, letting my legs spread further apart; I rest one calf on the table, feeling newspaper under my heel.

Chris's hands move up and down my thighs, coming close to but never quite touching my pussy. The teasing makes me throb, makes me want to beg him to touch me. I remain silent, knowing that begging will only prolong the torture.

Finally, his fingers slide over me, push in suddenly. It's delicious; I cry out at the abrupt penetration. My head hits the hard shelf behind the seat, but I don't notice it at all.

Chris moves down to the floor, his hand never ceasing its quick rhythmic movement. I feel his breath over the liquid heat of my vagina, and then his lips close around my clitoris, sending powerful, wonderful sensation all through me. Only for a moment, though, because cool air swiftly replaces his warm mouth. I whimper.

His hand adjusts somehow, moves. I open my eyes to see what he's doing. _Oh. God_ \-- Four of his fingers are sliding in and out of me, fast and hard, pushing deep -- and he folds his thumb over, pushes harder. I press my legs as far apart as I can, pulling my knees up towards my chest.

So fucking wanton, with my skirt wrapped around my waist, my knees wide, body bare from the waist down, and -- Chris's fingers continue to push into me, but it hurts, tight, like a raw thing just a bit too large. He removes his hand, frowning a little, and slides out from under the table.

I'm too stunned by the tide still swamping my body to move, so I lay in the same position until he returns, a bottle of lubricant and a plastic glove from the first-aid kit in hand.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks, putting on the glove.

I chuckle. "Uh, no. It just... you know, looks funny. Like you're getting ready for surgery."

"Doctor Kirkpatrick, please scrub in," he replies. I choke with laughter while he applies a generous amount of lube to his gloved left hand. "Prepping for surgery. Remember to always maintain a sterile environment," he continues in a nasal tone.

I throw my head back and laugh while he slips under the table again. His ungloved hand settles on my thigh, and he licks me, once, from the bottom of my slit to the top, making me gasp. Then his free hand is there, warm and slick, adding more lube. "Just in case," I hear him mutter.

Two fingers slide into me again. This is comfortable, enjoyable; he resets the rhythm, a little slower now, and I grind my hips to his hand. Then he adds another finger, and another; I begin to pant, arching up to meet his fingers' constant penetration. His hand moves, pauses, and then I feel the push again. His knuckles begin to work their gradual way against the unmoving bone of my pelvis.

"Tell me if it hurts," he breathes.

I open my eyes to look down. Watching his hand disappear, achingly slow, into my vagina: the sight itself is an incredible rush, a turn-on that flushes me with heat and sets my head spinning. We pant in unison, our breathing twinned. I reach for his free hand, squeeze it in mine.

It hurts, but not like before, and the pressure almost feels good, the way his hand is so thoroughly filling me up. Then suddenly it's past, and I open my eyes. Looking down, I see Chris's wrist and arm extending out from me. He's got his entire hand in my pussy.

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Yeah."

He lets go of my hand, drops his to his pants to make short work of his fly. As his hand closes over his impressively stiff erection, his other hand (-- _the one inside me_ \--) moves, closes into a fist. Begins to thrust.

Fuck, that does it for me. I'm coming already, feeling the implosion all around his fist. He's fistfucking me, and the quiet _fapfapfap_ of his other hand on his cock -- "ahh, God, Chris," I moan, and explode when one of my hands finds my clitoris.

Chris comes moments after I do. He eases his hand out of me, falls back on the floor, ignoring the dirtiness of the linoleum. "Jesus Christ," he says.

"Jesus Chris," I mumble, and giggle. I can't move. I don't want to, either. I'm too blissed out right now to give a damn who sees me like this. Hell, Justin could come in and hop on me right now, for all I care.

"Um. You okay?" he asks.

"Definitely." Somehow I manage the energy to pull my legs down and rearrange my skirt into a semblance of decency. Then I slide down to lay next to him on the floor.

"Thanks," I murmur.

He kisses me softly.

"You're welcome."


End file.
